The evening sun shines warm on my face while the breeze flitters with cold fingers against the back of my neck. The grass is tall and uncut, bright and luminous in the light of the low-lying sun, stirring and shivering in the cool currents of air. I sit in a nest of tall blades with a tree at my back, a small green and orange cloud of delicate leaves above me, rustling not only in the wind but with the fitful hopping and pecking of tiny brown birds with tiny black eyes, who seem to know a lot more than they say.
The flies land on everything, from my bare arms to the trembling blades of grass. The river just beyond me has begun to shimmer with the silver and black swirls cast by the angle of the day’s last sunshine. It seems to be rippling towards me as though I sat on the shore of a lake and not a riverbank. And all of a sudden, my paper is bathed in a blue shadow, which is simply the lack of yellow as the sunbeams slip behind the buildings and instant goosebumbs arise on my arms. All at once, we evening park dwellers reach for our cardigans and jackets, look about at the sudden change in light, tuck in our shirts and draw our limbs a little closer in on ourselves.
The hue of the grass is an entirely different green and the breeze seems a little more insistent now. The surface of the river has turned dark green and white, reflecting the sky above and the trees along the bank. Above me the birds still dance about in the sun, but the glow in the west is sinking quickly as the sun somewhere out of sight brings dawn to other lands, leaving the night to claim us. But in the first moments of the sweet liminal space between light and dark, I pull my legs in towards me, balancing my notebook atop my knees, and breathe in the grassy dusk air in thirsty gulps.
My sweater is thin and soon I will wander the cobblestone streets back to my sloping old flat and leave the park to the Spaniards. The twilight will deepen beyond my balcony window and the dinner din will echo in the streets below. Later I will slip into my jacket and go out to meet them. The contrast between my quiet afternoon writing time and the lively noche sevillana feels the same as the contrast between the night and day reflecting on the river.
Sweet river, what a faithful friend you have been; this is the hour I will miss you most.
The city itself is bright and beautiful at all hours, but perhaps I will miss it most at night, when the lanterns illuminate the alleys and the cathedral towers, and laughter and clinking glasses echo through the streets. A week more here before I leave and I miss you already. But tonight I join you.
With my chilly arms it’s time to pack up. Hasta luego, noche sevillana.
but they decided to reconstruct almost everything under the pretext that the building was in much need of repair. However, they did keep the original Moorish minaret, converting it into a bell-tower—and christened La Giralda—and the courtyard of orange trees, interspersed with fountains and irrigation channels. Local legend claims that the members of the cathedral who decided to rebuild in a purely Christian style said, “Let us build a church so beautiful and so grand that those who see it finished will think us mad.”
of camera-clad tourists do today. The modern day Spanish royal family still uses certain floors of the Alcázar, making it Europe’s oldest royal palace still in use. The entire site lies concealed from the rest of the city by a large wall which encircles the network of palaces and gardens. They too were once a Moorish stronghold, and much of the Muslim love of geometric shapes, tile-work and water features remain. The Christians constructed another palace in the mid-1300s, and added to existing ones, so certain sections of the Alcázar are almost entirely Gothic, and the gardens are arranged in different cultural styles, ranging from traditional to modern (including a small labyrinth which I thoroughly enjoyed wandering through).
strings with amazing dexterity. The singer’s voice was rich and gritty, and his long hair and expressive face added to the atmospheric story conjured by his song. Both the female and male flamenco dancers pounded the stage, or tablao, with their high-heeled shoes and twirled, paused and clapped with such passion that you could not help but feel its effect, causing nearly overwhelming surges of emotion to bubble up in the chest at times. Its moving intensity surprised us all.
evokes a sense of the wild west, with dusty dirt roads, horses and ladies in beautiful dresses with full ruffles at the bottom. The women also wear huge painted flowers atop their heads and tasseled shawls which shimmy in time with their hips (which are hugged tightly by myriad colours and patterns, with polka dots as a strong favourite). Men mill about in suits and ties, while others ride horses in broad brimmed hats and grey vests. Whole families ride slowly along the streets in carriages, their horses decorated with bells and pompoms.
by huge floats, or pasos—carried on the shoulders of robust and devout young men—depicting figures of crying Mary and crucified Jesus, surrounded by candles, silver and gold lattice work and fresh roses. The feria, however, is not religious in nature, nor as old a tradition as Semana Santa. It began in the mid 1800s as a livestock fair, but quickly transformed into an excuse for a big party. Its purpose today seems to be dressing up in flamenco wear and heading out to a fair-ground to enjoy music, dancing, drinking, eating and general all-day, late-night, wee-hours Spanish merry-making.
I have unpacked everything, found places for things, hung our Sunshine Coast calendar on the wall, and begun to settle in and stretch out like a cat in its favourite box. There is a desk to write at, space to practice yoga, and two balconies with wrought iron railings to lean out over and watch the scurrying day unravel below. We can reach the Spanish school in a five minute walk, the river flows wide and deep a block or so away, and this old apartment—with high ceilings, a quirky mix of furniture, sloping floors—is large enough to give private lessons or small group classes in English and yoga. The plan for finding work is developing. We have ventured deeper into the country, seen the coast, explored another city. We have made a few friends, both Spanish and foreign. The days grow longer and the sun shines hot in the afternoons and the breeze rocks the open windows gently back and forth. Things are coming together.
cracking the tops of crème brulée and things like that—not that I have had any crème brulée, but I have enjoyed other sensual food moments like slicing up strawberries and bananas and eating them with honey, or cooking myself a mushroom risotto with a glass of a wine and music. Moments like those make me feel independent and chic, but also a bit like a kid who has finally been deemed old enough to be left home alone. Either way, a bit of solo dancing round the kitchen lends itself to making the most of a night by yourself.
Tegan Bethune 